Lust and Dust
by Forseti Purge
Summary: A chance meeting in a bar. Take place post-Season 1 Homeland finale. Depression and dejection fill Carrie. Will this meeting with a fellow blond help her? One-shot. Reviews are eternally loved.


Disclaimer: Neither the Mentalist nor Homeland is mine. The story, all of it, is.

SACRAMENTO

Fortsyth had Scotch on tap, mirrors on its ceiling, and a dozen flat-screen TVs on its metallic walls. The bar was ostensibly Scottish, though none of its patrons cared. Long as the music was on, the lighting glitzy, the drink served fast. In that, Forysth was like any other bar. It just happened to be two blocks away from Residence Inn of downtown Sacramento.

Carrie Mathison stumbled in. She had no idea why she'd chosen to visit this place. But no matter. Nothing mattered her. Her life is dust. Brody had sold her out. CIA had suspended her. She had no confidant in Langley. Except maybe Saul. But Carrie didn't want to trouble him—in fact, she didn't want to trouble anyone anymore, which was why she'd flown to West Coast. To escape. If only for a week. She'd passed the ECT, yeah, but she needed more. A time for he—

She _tripped_—

"Whoa—"

An arm caught her. One more and they helped her up.

A blond. Like her. Only he's a shade darker. Kind of handso—

"—okay?"

Carrie sighed. She'd been thinking too much. "I'm fine. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

The blond strolled to the bar. Unlike other men Carrie had ever met—except Brody, maybe—he seemed classy. Not sure what. Just...that. Before she could stop herself she sat beside him.

"Name's Carrie."

"Hi, Carrie. I'm Patrick." He smiled.

Carrie's stomach somersaulted. "Long day?"

"Very long." He turned to bartender. "Oban, please."

"Me too," Carrie said. She didn't particularly like Oban but she was desperate to keep the conversation going. More desperate than she'd thought.

But Patrick didn't look so. He's staring at the wooden bar, thinking God knows what. Carrie wondered. He's not interested on me or what? I look ugly? Nah, that's impossible. Okay, maybe a little. I'm getting old. But I look like Claire Danes and Danes is certainly beautiful—

"Your order, ma'am."

"Thank you." Ugh. Ma'am. She's only thirty-two. Didn't deserve to be called ma'am. Or maybe she did. What's the difference, anyway. She'd die alone. She was sure. She raised her empty glass to toast it—Empty? She looked at it. Empty, yes. What the hell?

"You'd drunk it in one swallow."

Patrick. "Oh." Then: "Oh, I see. Thank you for letting me."

Patrick nodded. She ordered another Oban, then turned to him. No thought this time. Just talk. "So Patrick," she said, "mind if you tell me where do you work?"

"I'm a CBI consultant. You?"

"I work with federal government."

"In DC?"

"Yes."

His lips twisted in what could have been a smile. For the first time, he seemed amused.

"What?"

He chuckled. "Not really in DC, no?"

"Well, I sometimes wonder why DC looks a lot like Charlotte, North Carolina, but I do work in DC."

"If you say so." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Though I think you're lying. You work with spy agency. You deal with classified stuff."

How the fuck do you know? Then, said aloud: "How the f—"

"No!"

"What?"

"We keep it PG-13 in Sacramento."

"Why?"

"God forbid. That's all."

Carried stifled her chuckle. Patrick didn't strike her as someone who believed in God. Then again, Brody hadn't struck her as a Muslim either. Brody. No. Forget him. Focus on this man Patrick. She'd get to his bed tonight.

"No," Patrick said.

"No what?"

"We won't sleep together after this."

"I don't—" But she was tired. "Why not?"

Patrick raised his hand. A marriage ring.

Carrie felt her stomach sank. "Just one night. I won't tell your wife. I swear."

"Sleeping with me won't solve your problem. Whatever it is." He shook his head. "Besides, trust me, I'm not someone to be lusted for."

"Please. Patrick. I'm begging you."

"Carrie. No."

Tears rolled down her face. She turned away and sank her face to her palms, holding her cry the best she could. No. No crying in the public. She swallowed, put all on her eyes, ordered them to calm the fuck down. Sigh. Once more. Better. In control. Always in control.

Carrie shook her head. No cry. Good. "Patrick—"

No Patrick. He was gone. On the bar, his glass and cash, enough to cover their drinks. And a note.

_Don't give up._

She ran. Head out. Cry until her eyes were all red. She'd die alone. She really would.


End file.
